|Chico by Jesus Correa|
How was I going to do this. How was I going to bring myself to murder her horse. She loved that horse, her and her horse had grown up together, they were like inter-species siblings, and I couldn’t imagine them not being together. They longed for one another, her and her horse, and when she wasn’t near the horse she was thinking about that horse, thinking about riding her horse, and grooming her horse, talking to and feeding her horse; and I liked to think that that horse thought about her too, when she was gone away to school, when she got her first job at the Dairy Queen, when she was out on her first date; I liked to think that that horse was sitting there in that stable, missing her as much as I know she missed him.
How was I going to do this? Slit it’s throat, maybe a shotgun, poison? How do you kill a loved one, how do you bring yourself to do what must be done, to do the right thing, knowing it will hurt someone you love? I needed a drink, I needed to just be out of my head a little.
I went in the house, my wife sitting there at the table, knitting a scarf for the young whore who had just moved in the house up the road a bit, humming a Slayer song under her breath, smelling like an old whore herself.
“Ma, are you sure we have to kill the poor horse, are you really sure that’s necessary?” I asked before raising the cup of bourbon I had just poured to my face, the part of my face with the hole in it, where words and spit came out, where bourbon and vagina juice went in.
“We got to do it Pa, sorry, it’s our only choice, unless you really feel like going to the store and buying some glue. You know we need the glue Pa, you know we do.”
She was right, we did need the glue, for the Popsicle house we were building, and I just didn’t have it in me to drive all the way to the store to buy a whole bottle of glue; no, we had to kill that horse, and quick, before we didn’t feel like making a Popsicle house no more. I got out my shotgun and took another drink of that fire water, and headed out to the barn to kill that horse, to make the glue that we needed to make that Popsicle house that we had been talking about making since yesterday.
|Chico 2. I have to find the perfect place for Chico now at my apartment, among things that make me happy.|